The Service of the Dead

by Candace Robb

But why? Why would the Cavertons come all this way? How could I matter so much? Your warning. You believe it’s possible. That the Cavertons might be here.

  You are the one with eyes and ears, Kate. I only feel your fear.

  “Lovely tools. Will you give them to Phillip?”

  Kate made herself pick up the chisel, feel the heft in her hand, slip it back into its loop in the leather case. “Yes. I think I will take them to him first thing this morning. On my way to see Lady Kirkby.”

  “You still mean to see her? Do you care what Lionel had to say now that you know Sir Handsome is the one in charge?” Jennet stuck her face close, peered up at Kate with a teasing grin. “I sensed the magic stirring between the two of you, do not think you can hide that from me.”

  “It would still be interesting to hear Lady Margery’s impression. As for Sir Elric, his appeal will not sway me.”

  Jennet nodded. “I never doubted that.” She rolled up the tools. “Young Phillip will be pleased. But Marie will expect something of equal worth. The comb?”

  “No!” It was out before Kate could guard her tongue. “No. The teeth are too far apart for her fine hair. But you are right. I will promise her a new gown. We will choose the fabrics together.”

  A nod. A yawn. “Shall we try to sleep a little?”

  Kate realized she was cold now. Hiding beneath the covers for a while held some appeal. They set the items carefully on the bench beneath the window and climbed into bed.

  “Have you encountered any Scots in the city of late?” Kate asked as Jennet began to settle.

  “The Cavertons? Do you think they stole the comb?”

  On the night Kate caught Jennet thieving in the hall, she had recognized something in the young woman’s eyes, the anger, the determination. Shortly after Jennet began to serve Kate, they shared bits of their stories. Jennet knew of the Cavertons, of Maud, of her brothers’ deaths. Not everything, but enough.

  “Young Andrew had wide palms, short, fat fingers, and spent his coin on fine gloves and boots.”

  “The one who got away? The scarred one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Face pulled together on the right, and missing that ear.” She was quiet a moment. “There is always talk of suspicious Northerners on the streets, and many badly scarred men about, but I have heard of no such newcomer.”

  Kate closed her eyes. “But you did not know to ask.”

  “No. You think Andrew Caverton has done all this as revenge?”

  “It is madness, I know. All because of a comb that stirred memories.”

  “And the gloves. Both in the undercroft that was set on fire.”

  “So I might never have known they were there. A different culprit? Am I simply imagining the connections?”

  It was not long past dawn when the men pounded on the door below, waking Lille and Ghent. And Kate, who was amazed to realize she had slept. She was alone in the bed, Jennet already up. Kate dressed with care, armed and ready to slip away to the deanery as soon as she could, grateful that she could be so clearheaded despite that pounding on the hall door.

  Downstairs, a pair in the livery of Westmoreland stood in the doorway, the mud of the road on their clothes. One of them apologized for arriving so early. “But Sir Elric said you would want to know as soon as we found him,” he said.

  “My servant Sam? You have found my servant?”

  “We believe it is him. From what we can tell, he fits the description. The cart is coming behind us. We were first through Walmgate Bar to wake you, Mistress Clifford.”

  From what they can tell? “Is he alive?”

  “Only just, Mistress. He is breathing, not much more.”

  Matt quietly informed her that Jennet had just gone out to the kitchen, and he had been about to let the dogs out into the yard when the pounding began.

  “Take Lille and Ghent out to the yard and poke your head in the kitchen. Tell Berend we will need hot water and rags.” She turned back to the men. “Where did you find him?”

  “Not far outside Walmgate Bar. We stayed there the night with him, in a farmhouse.” The man who had so far done all the talking nodded, then stepped back, as if considering his duty finished.

  His partner seemed ready to say more. Kate prodded him with a few questions. She had guessed right.

  “We were on our way back to the city,” he said. “Thirsty. We had been out there all afternoon, asking everyone we encountered about a white-haired man. So when we saw an alewife’s sign, a bushel on a pole, we stopped. Fine ale, and as we drank, we told the alewife about the man we sought, headed to Beverley in the snow. She told us to take a look at the poor fellow in the lean-to, staying warm with her cow. He looked the part, white haired, slight of build. He had been there for a day. Her husband found him in the ditch by the road, brought him in.”

  Jennet and Berend entered the hall carrying water and rags. Matt followed and set about pulling his pallet over by the fire. Kate sent Jennet up to the solar for an old sheet, some blankets. Matt and Berend moved the chairs and table about to afford more room for nursing Sam.

  “Are the dogs loose in the yard?” she asked Matt.

  “No. I left them in the kitchen. I thought it best.”

  She asked the earl’s men why they had not taken Sam to Sir Elric at Sheriff Hutton. The second began to answer, but the first rushed to talk over him. “We were to take him for questioning. But we doubt the man will wake, much less be able to tell us anything. His face . . . He is of no use to Sir Elric.”

  “And you found no sign of Underhill?”

  “No. The others are still out searching for him.”

  At the sound of a cart creaking down the alleyway, Berend went out, Jennet following with a lantern. Kate heard Berend directing the men and suddenly thought of Lille and Ghent, imagining them at the window, ears pricked, investigating the unaccustomed noise.

  She dug some old scissors out of a basket by the door. In case clothes needed to be cut away. Damn them for arriving just now. She had wanted to see that Phillip and Marie were safe at the deanery.

  Berend escorted a man through the door carrying Sam in his arms. Kneeling by the pallet, Berend helped ease Sam down onto the old sheet. They were right that he would be of no use to Sir Elric. His breath was a death rattle. Jennet joined Kate at the pallet, whispering a prayer that Sam might be beyond pain. His face was caked with blood and filth, his mouth and jaw so battered he could not possibly speak, his eyes swollen shut, hair matted, clothes tattered and filthy. What cause had anyone to so beat old Sam about the head?

  “Your servant, Mistress Clifford?” asked one of the men.

  “What is left of him,” she said. “Thank you for bringing him to us.”

  The man who had carried Sam in from the cart bobbed his head and departed, but the first two remained. “We are to report whether he lives, and whether he manages to say anything of use.”

  She looked up at them in disbelief. “How? How might he speak?”

  The two men bowed their heads.

  Kate told Matt to fetch his cousin, the healer Bella. Sam seemed beyond healing, but Bella might ease his pain.

  Berend and Jennet were already cutting away Sam’s clothes, the shears difficult to use on the fabric, which was stiff with blood and filth—mud, urine, feces, and, as Kate leaned closer, she detected pus, the scent of festering wounds. He had been suffering for days. She studied the horrific injuries to his face. And all the while something about him bothered her. He had been found too quickly, too easily.

  Wetting a rag, she began to clean the muck from his forehead, eyes, temples, cheeks, nose. She sat back. Jennet glanced at her. Kate dabbed at the nose. Their eyes met. Sam had a prominent mole on his nose. This man did not.

  Too easy, far too easy. A distraction? Though filthy, the clothes seemed to be Sam’s. A deliberate ruse then. Such malevolence.

  She crossed herself and said a prayer for the stranger’s soul. Then she rose, telling Berend and Jennet she was going
across the road for the priest. She waited until they had both looked up, indicating that they had heard. Taking her cloak, she was about to step out the door as Matt entered with Bella.

  “God bless you for coming so quickly. I entrust him to you.” Kate nodded to both of them and hurried out. Checking that no liveried men lingered in the yard, she paused, expecting some sound from Lille and Ghent—their claws scratching the door, or a bark demanding attention. They had been locked in the kitchen so long. But Kate heard nothing. She rushed across to the kitchen, flung open the door, careful to close it behind her. There was no need. Lille and Ghent would not dash out. They were gone.

  Sam. Sam walked Lille and Ghent, they knew him and trusted him. And he knew how much they meant to her. But why? How? If it was Andrew Caverton behind all this, how had he enlisted Sam? Sam, of all people?

  Because he knew her household so well. And he knew how to handle Lille and Ghent.

  Wait for Berend and Jennet, Geoff warned.

  No. He will not show himself if they are with me.

  Andrew? Or Sam?

  Either of them, the bastards. I’ll gut them both.

  She opened the kitchen door with care, slipped out, shutting it behind her, melting into the shadows beneath the eaves. The hall door opened. Jennet stepped out, hurried down the alley. It would take her a moment to cross over to St. Mary’s and discover Kate was not there.

  Opening the gate into Thomas Holme’s yard, Kate crept along the fence, feeling her way, ducking past the lanterns her neighbor now kept lit through the night, past the Holme house and the small shops fronting the street. She paused there. Where would Sam advise Andrew Caverton to lie in wait? Where could he trust that the dogs would not call attention to them if they barked?

  A little hand closed over hers. “Come with me.”

  18

  UNFINISHED BUSINESS

  She was not much taller than Marie, but not so slight. The hat, sized for the head of an adult, or to hide long hair, made her neck seem too thin. But the girl was young enough and filthy enough that she might simply be an undersized lad; one could tell little about what lay beneath the grime on her face in the pale light of dawn.

  “Take me to Sam and the dogs. And Andrew Caverton.”

  “He said you would guess right quick. He knows you well.” The Scots burr suggested the child had accompanied Andrew from the north. “Stay low as we cross the road.” The child held on tight to Kate’s hand as they crossed. Just then, Jennet stepped into the road, coming from the church. Kate stumbled, caught herself, moved on when certain Jennet had noticed her. She and the girl slipped behind a yew at the edge of Holme’s gardens.

  Jennet’s voice, calling out to Berend. “Not at the church.”

  A tug on her hand. Kate missed Berend’s reply as the child hurried her along. They zigzagged down the garden, staying beneath trees, behind hedges. The child knew this place well, quickly descending toward the river, where the morning mist would help mask their passage. As Kate ran, she reviewed in her mind the weapons concealed in her skirts. It would depend how close he was, and whether Lille and Ghent were in the way, but the axe seemed her best chance at felling Andrew. A soft drizzle began, blending with the mist. Kate silently cursed. The mist would affect her vision, weakening her aim.

  Then you must use your other senses.

  She nodded to Geoff.

  Stumbling again, Kate carefully fell to her knees, causing the girl to lose her grip. Kate whistled. A whimper. The dogs were near, muzzled. She released the axe from its sheath and drew out her knife, then turned. The girl grabbed Kate’s left hand, yanked, and Kate used the momentum to come close with such suddenness the girl lost her balance. With her left arm, Kate hugged the child close, the knife, in her right hand, at her throat.

  “Be silent, do as I say, and you will not be hurt,” she whispered in the girl’s ear. Keeping her ears pricked for sound, Kate walked them slowly down toward the water. She gambled that Sam would be busy restraining the dogs, so she need take only Andrew. She thought through how to let go of the girl and reach for her axe in a smooth movement, take him by surprise.

  A rustle in the brush. She stopped, held her breath. A cat streaked past. Running away, not toward. Could be Sam with the dogs who spooked it, could be Andrew. Kate stood still, a firm grip on the wriggling girl, getting her bearings. A creeping in the underbrush. Close. Closer. She pushed the girl down and sideways, kicking her so she rolled down the hill. A form broke from the underbrush, hesitated. Kate aimed her axe just above the knee. A startled yelp. As the man lost his balance she caught his arms and yanked, bringing him down.

  “Mother of God!” he howled.

  The telltale r. It was Andrew. Good.

  The dogs whimpered somewhere to her left. Kate remembered an old stone building near the water, masked by underbrush, where Lille and Ghent once cornered a young fox. She dragged the hobbled Andrew toward it, thanking God it was not far—she was strong, but he was heavy. The girl caught up as Kate felt a door behind her. Using her back to push it open, Kate dropped Andrew’s arms and kicked him so he turned onto the axe with a shriek. She yanked the girl on top of him and used their confusion to drop and roll into the hut, knocking Sam down in the doorway and slicing his arm with her knife. He cried out. Away to the dogs who were plunging crazily. Their leashes were tied to an iron bar in a window opening and, as she’d guessed, their muzzles were on. Damnably clever Sam. She needed them off so the dogs could bite and tear. She was fumbling with Lille’s muzzle when Andrew came for her. A cry of pain in the doorway—Sam?—and Jennet was there, launching herself at Andrew, knocking him to the floor, pressing his face into the ground, giving Kate enough time to succeed in removing Lille’s muzzle and order her to catch the others. Ghent’s muzzle was easier to open, and he was quick to follow, pinning Sam down. By then the girl was gone, Lille in pursuit.

  Andrew reared, shaking Jennet off, but he could not stand. Kate yanked him into the light filtering in the barred window, stumbling a little. She hoped he, Sam, and the girl were sufficiently subdued that she did not need to test how much strength she had left.

  “Murdering Clifford bitch, get the axe out of my leg.” Andrew howled as he tried to do it himself. His right arm did not do what he wanted.

  She must have pulled it out of joint. Good. She crouched beside him, took hold of the axe, nodding to Jennet who moved to hold down his legs, and pulled.

  Andrew barked with the pain. Ghent answered.

  Sam cursed and ordered Ghent off his chest. “You would bite me?” he cried. The dogs were trained not to bite down unless she signaled, or she was down, but Sam did not know that. She had not shared that part of their training with him. God be thanked she had not been a complete fool about him.

  A scream outside, and Berend ducked into the shed, the girl tucked under one arm. “She is a fighter, but Lille subdued her.”

  He stepped aside to let Lille trot into the room. She immediately went to Sam and growled and snapped, then came to sit beside Kate, glaring at Andrew.

  Kate rubbed Lille’s ears, thanking her.

  “You always were more comfortable in the stable than in the house,” Andrew wheezed as he tried to shift all weight off the wounded leg. “Cruel to keep fine hunting dogs in the city.”

  “You are as ugly as I remember, Andrew Caverton,” Kate said.

  “Thanks to your brothers, Kitty Kitty Puss Puss.”

  The old taunt had Kate fingering the axe.

  Steady, Kate, you have him. Learn something before you gut him.

  So you are here. Proud of me, are you?

  As ever.

  As if he were a guest in her hall, Kate asked Andrew what brought him to York after all this time.

  “What would you say if I told you it was your mother’s pious preaching that woke the beast?”

  His answer strayed so far from what she had expected that Kate was at a loss for a retort. The girl began to whimper. Berend eased her down. She lunged
toward Kate. Lille went for her, but Jennet grabbed the girl and hoisted her onto her lap, pinning her arms to her side. With a grunt, Andrew leaned forward and swatted the girl’s hat, knocking it off. Thick dark hair tumbled over her slender shoulders. Lille growled.

  “She is proud of that hair. Remind you of someone, Kitty Kitty with the raven’s wings? She’s your niece, Petra. Walter’s girl.”

  “My brother has a daughter?”

  “Why do you think he lost the hand? He wooed my sister Mary, used her, flung her away. Twelve years old, she was, same as you. Sent away, to the north, to family, my poor sister, and there she died. Too young to give birth. Aye, Mary died, but Petra survived to remind us, ever remind us. And then the Clifford men closed round you, protecting their princess, Kitty Kitty Puss Puss, fearing what we might do to you, that we might be as cruel as your Walter. We almost succeeded.”

  I knew she’d been sent away, but I thought it was to torment Walter. Did you know about this, Geoff? That she was with child?

  I guessed, but only later, after Maud. Walter denied it, said she was too young to conceive.

  “That pretty comb we left for you among the spices that make you rich, I knew you would remember it. The precious comb your brother Walter took from you to give to our Mary. Why are you not wearing it, Kitty Kitty Puss Puss? Or the one you wore that day Bryce and I caught you out alone. That bloody day.” He reared forward, pushing Kate down before she could react, pressing himself to her, grinding his twisted lips against her mouth. Lille and Ghent charged at him.

  Berend roared as he rushed between the dogs, lifting Andrew into the air and slamming him against the wall.

  Kate rolled over, spitting out the taste of the bastard.

  Berend held Andrew down with a foot to his chest, though the man’s eyes were closed as he struggled to breathe. “Have you heard enough, Dame Katherine? Shall we end it?”

  “Not yet.” There were things she wanted to know, and things she did not want her servants to hear. “I want to talk to him alone. Take Sam out. Question him. Petra, too. Leave Lille and Ghent.”